Listen to the Mockingbird (19 page)

Our plan was simple. From the top of the rock I could see a good way down the trail. The stage driver wouldn’t see the tree across the trail until he rounded the bend a half-mile from the rock. It would take about that distance to halt the horses. I was sure this wouldn’t be the first time this sort of trick had been tried, so the fellow riding shotgun would be looking to the rear, watching for someone to ride up from behind while the driver would probably be scanning the landscape to the front.

We had estimated and measured carefully. The fallen tree should bring the stage to a stop very near the split between the two rocks. I would simply step out, open the stage door, wave my gun in the passengers’ faces—one of which would be Andrew’s—and relieve them of their valuables.

I would have to take everyone’s jewelry and timepieces and hand baggage. Andrew would doubtless have that cherrywood chest inside the coach where he could keep an eye on it, but I couldn’t take only that or any fool would be able to figure out that Andrew was the target.

I would black my face with ashes and cover everything but my eyes with a bandana. And I would be wearing breeches and trying to make my movements those of a man. I would only gesture and maybe grunt. I wouldn’t speak. Perhaps, in the shock of the moment, even Andrew wouldn’t recognize me.

I would depart through the rock to a cleft in its backside where Fanny would be waiting next to a fresh-dug hole. I had many times rehearsed flinging my stolen goods into the hole, kicking the dirt over it and stomping it smooth. That should take no more than twenty seconds. I’d had Winona count it out. I was certain no one would expect me to leave the goods there. The cleft hid the signs of digging.

Then I would leap onto Fanny’s back and in another thirty seconds I would disappear behind another outcropping of rock less than a quarter-mile upriver. Two miles further, in a thicket of squat pine and juniper trees, were more giant rocks; and in one was a small niche just big enough for me to slip inside. There, I would scrub my face, put on a dress and lie low for the rest of the day. The hour before nightfall, I would head back to the place where we had decided Winona would set up camp.

No one could follow. Even if there were horses tied behind the stage, there wouldn’t be time to untie them before I vanished.

Chapter Twenty-one

I could see the puffs of dust kicked up by the stagecoach much further away than I expected. It was an hour past midday, and the heat was rising in waves. The horses were clear and sharp in the sun, but the dust became a trail of smoky haze almost concealing the coach, so it looked like the horses were trying to charge out of a fog from which they couldn’t quite free themselves. There was plenty of time.

Winona and I had packed up our camp that morning and dragged the young cottonwood across the trail. It had only recently been uprooted by the wind; the leaves were still green and just beginning to wilt.

We feared someone else would come down the trail before the stagecoach and find the tree, or that the stage company had hired outriders. But there had been no sight of anyone in the four days we had camped there, and no one appeared that morning.

Winona had climbed into the wagon, picked up the reins, raised her chin and stared straight into my eyes. I expected some last-minute instructions or another attempt to talk me out of this folly, but all she said was, “I ain’t met many people I liked, black or white. And I ain’t about to lose one of ’em today, you hear?”

My confidence waned when she was out of sight and the full import of what I was doing descended upon me. It was all I could do not to mount Fanny and gallop after her, so I sat down to keep my feet from running.

Fully understanding how soldiers felt approaching a battlefield, I drew idly in the dirt with a stick, wondering if I’d ever see my friend again, if I would even live through the day. By noon, I had lived and relived every possible mishap twice, my every muscle so tense I near squeaked when I moved.

As the stage neared the bend, I scrambled off the rock and took up my post in the narrow passageway.

I could hear the hooves pounding, pounding. When the wheels began to screech as the driver started to saw at the reins, a clammy chill seeped down my spine to my heels and I fought off a wave of dizziness.

We had chosen the perfect place for the tree. The stage clattered to a halt directly in front of me. I could see the letters on the door: Cuthright & Dobbins Stagecoach Co.

Raising my chin, I stepped out from the rocks onto the trail. The driver was peering at the tree that blocked the horses. The shotgun rider was scanning the trail behind. No one was looking to the side. Five more steps, and my hand was on the coach’s brass door handle.

I yanked the door open. The step was high, but I had known it would be. I didn’t break stride as I stepped inside. The passengers gaped at me, still trying to register what was happening. It was then that I realized that I did not so much fear being shot or caught as I was terrified to see Andrew again.

He sat slouched against the window, his feet propped on his mother’s chest. My palms began to sweat. But he only stared at me uncomprehendingly.

A dour old woman in black sat next to him, her broad face beginning to register alarm. I waved my pistol in her face and pulled her handbag from her unresisting arm.

The other passenger was a man with thinning blond hair. Without prompting, he handed me a silver pocket watch. I pointed at the strap that showed at his collar and he produced a money pouch.

I could hear the driver grumbling about delay, and the coach rocked slightly as someone got down to move the tree. No sign of panic from those in charge. Yet.

I stooped and yanked Andrew’s chest from beneath his feet. It felt heavy as a ship’s anchor. When I straightened, he was staring straight into my eyes all the way to my soul. I froze, my legs like trees rooted to the spot. His mouth opened and he said my name—“Matty”—in a voice that was part anger, part terror.

I turned and fled. The chest no longer seemed heavy at all. In three steps I was across the trail and between the rocks, two more and I was out the other side, where I dropped everything I was carrying except the pistol into the hole I had dug. I kicked dirt over it and, just the way I had practiced, I leapt and landed on Fanny’s back. She knew the game well and within seconds was at a full gallop.

Something whined past my ear. Someone was shooting at me. I didn’t turn—it didn’t matter who it was. Seconds later Fanny and I sailed around the rocky outcropping and into the stand of trees, moving so fast that the leaves and trunks were a blur.

Elation rose in me like the froth on boiling milk. I hadn’t been caught or injured. I did it, did it, did it repeated over and over in my brain. It was over.

999

Lying still inside that tiny cave for the rest of the afternoon was one of the hardest things I ever did. I had changed clothes and cleaned myself up as best I could. Four times I checked to be sure the pistol was loaded before I stowed it in the wide canvas sack I had taken from Fanny’s saddlebag. My heart would not stop its drumming in my ears, and my head and back began to ache as if I’d been flogged.

At last, the sky began to dim with dusk. I slipped out of the cave and moved toward where I had left Fanny among the trees. My senses must have been numb because I heard nothing but the insects until something struck me across the side of my head.

I teetered, and the ground seemed to rise to meet me. Wrenching my head around, I toppled. My attacker’s face was twisted with rage, the whites showing full around the knotted pupils of his eyes. A piece of wood dangled from his hand like a club. The mouth was screaming, “Where is my mother’s chest?”

Andrew.

Fool! I cursed myself. Why hadn’t I kept the pistol in my hand?

The canvas sack had fallen beneath me. I slipped my hand inside, and my fingers closed around the revolver.

Andrew’s hands twisted in what was left of my hair and jerked me upright like a marionette. I raised the gun and pointed it straight into his face. He let go and I wobbled, holding the gun as firmly as I could as I staggered backward.

His eyes lost their malevolence and took on a hunted look. “Don’t, Matty,” he pleaded.

Habits of the heart die very, very hard. I was drawing a shaky breath when the chunk of wood he had been holding slammed into my side. The rage had leaped again to his eyes.

I brought my left hand up to steady the gun.

“Pull the trigger,” he taunted. “Shoot me. You haven’t the nerve.”

Even with both my hands steadying it, the revolver teetered. In that moment I wanted him dead more than I had ever wanted anything. But I couldn’t pull the trigger.

He lunged at me, reaching for the revolver. I slammed it into his head sideways. Andrew hit the ground like a felled tree.

I spun around and ran. Through the trees, in the deepening dusk, I could see Fanny and, near her, a dark horse with a pale mane. No other horse. Andrew must have gotten a mount from somewhere and ridden back alone. His finding Fanny had been just a piece of luck.

I picked up a fallen cottonwood branch and swung it at the hindquarters of the dark horse as hard as I could. The horse whinnied with surprise and took off.

For the second time that day I leaped into Fanny’s saddle. Feeling nothing but the wind in my face and the rapid thud of my pulse in my ears as we flew over the rocky ground, I prayed she would not stumble. Darkness was coming in.

Even when I saw the clearing where Winona was waiting I didn’t slow. Finally, I toppled from Fanny’s back and sagged onto Winona’s shoulder. “It’s done. The chest is buried.” I drew back, breathless. “Andrew came after me. It was hideous.”

“I hopes you kilt him.”

“I wish to God I had.”

Winona stiffened. “Lord, child, you is sopped.”

I put my hand to my head where Andrew had hit me. It came away dark and wet.

Winona shook her head, her eyes big with worry. “That ain’t the worst of it. Turn ’round.” My skirt was soaked. I was trailing a river of blood. A column of hot pain shot up inside me like boiling oil, searing my innards. I teetered and fell. Through the night and late into the next day I lay on my bedroll writhing with the pain that had wrapped itself around my guts while she mopped my face with a damp cloth and held liquids to my lips, insisting that I drink. I told her we were short of water and not to waste it, but she paid no heed.

Toward noon, I must have fallen asleep. It was almost dark when I felt her hand on my brow. My eyes were like drops of lead, but I forced them open.

“It’s done over with,” Winona said.

I wasn’t sure what she meant.

“The baby’s gone,” she said.

What baby? I couldn’t think what she was talking about. Then it came clear. I no longer need fret about Andrew taking the child. God had seen to that.

999

I awoke that night with the moon streaming full into my face. I closed my eyes against it and lay listening to Winona’s soft gurgling snores. I hadn’t thought beyond this point. What should I do now?

The next morning, Winona said I should lie in another day.

“No. We need to pack up. We need to get into Albuquerque.”

She frowned. “Albuquerque? What you thinking of? We got to lay low awhile.”

“I want to get it over with.”

“That’s good,” she said. “I like to get things over with. What we talkin’ about?”

“I’m going to turn myself in.”

“You gone daft, child? You done got away with it. You ain’t gonna do no such thing as turn yourself in now!”

“Andrew recognized me,” I said slowly. “No telling who he told, but I reckon he told the people on the stagecoach.” I squinted through the morning sun at her. “I don’t cotton to living the rest of my life haunted and hunted and looking over my shoulder.”

“I do believe you is hitching the donkey to the wrong end of the cart. Why did you go and do it all, then?”

“I’m going to draw up your freedom papers. You take Fanny and get someone to board her.”

Winona threw her hands in the air, looking quite like a goose getting ready to take off.

I ignored her. “I am going to the nearest sheriff’s office and return everything I took except that chest. And turn myself in.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Zeke Fountain peered at me from the corridor. I must have dozed off because, for a moment, I could not think why there were bars across my room. I could not be in jail. I had turned myself in. I had done my time for the stagecoach job.

Giving everything back except that chest got me a shorter sentence. Three years, four months and six days later they set me free. And the chest was still right where I had stowed it next to that rock.

“Someone to see you,” Zeke said, and Nacho, clearly uncomfortable, appeared beside him. “Looks like we may be lettin’ you go soon,” Zeke added, then ambled off.

Nacho was holding his hat in both hands like he does in church. “Señora…”

“What did he mean, they may be letting me go?”

Nacho’s head bobbed up and down. His face was the color and shape of a cow’s kidney, the nose broad and round. He still had a full head of wiry hair, but it had long ago gone grey. Even the little hairs that grew out of his ears were grey. Horses understood every word he said, but I was never sure that I did. “I make decision.”

My outgoing breath stopped in my throat. Please don’t let him say he’s moving on. “I forgot your pay. I’m truly sorry. Send Winona back here, and I’ll explain things to her. She will pay you immediately.”

He nodded solemnly. “Si, gracias.” He cleared his throat and said again, “I make decision.”

I wanted to beg, to plead, but I knew it would do no good. And without Nacho, my hopes for building a reputation in horse breeding were as good as dead.

His eyes almost disappeared behind his cheeks as he squinted at me. “I say to Señor Fountain I know you did not kill.”

The rest of my breath burst from my lungs. I was not sure I heard right. “You did what?”

Nacho nodded, his eyes holding mine the same way he looked at horses. “I tell him I see you in la casa, in the house, when the man fall down outside.”